


Nice Boys _What_*?

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-02
Updated: 2006-07-02
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: A little post-kiss-in-the-street (end ofBJD) bit of smuttiness.





	Nice Boys _What_*?

It was cold. Cold and snowing. How they managed to walk with the two of them enveloped within his capacious coat was a miracle; it was at least two blocks and the biting wind cut into her bare legs. She did not care.

They had only kissed for the first time just then in front of the stationery store after several failed attempts since he’d turned up on her front stoop, and it was nothing like she had expected. It had often been the case that the sort of man she _should_ have liked (i.e., responsible, trustworthy, sober) was a cold fish, and the sort of man she should have stayed away from at all costs (i.e., her former editor-in-chief) was the man who rocked her socks. But here, surprisingly, in this man with a penchant for silly Christmas-themed jumpers, she may just have found someone capable of being both things.

She hardly remembered the walk but for the chill, the thoughts that filled her head and his large, strong hand holding her at her waist, guiding her. He hadn’t made the walk many times but already he seemed to know it well.

In the flat; by some boon of fate the latch had not caught and they were not in fact destined to spend the evening out on the walk. Then there was warmth, mitigated by the open window; he went and drew it shut as he muttered apologies for his precipitous departure earlier when she’d gone to change into something more comfortable. As he came near to her, he looked for all the world as if he was afraid she might have changed her opinion of him during the short space of their wintry stroll. She tipped her head back, her lips parting ever so slightly, advising without words that no such thing had occurred.

She realised within minutes of their return that behind those soulful dark brown eyes and an aloof formal posture was a man of deep but closely guarded passions: after shedding his coat, he placed one hand on either side of her face and drew himself to her again, kissing her with an ardour that surpassed what he had shown her on the street.

It didn’t take long for her to become utterly lost in that kiss. His hands slid down her shoulders and arms (conveniently liberating them from the cardigan) to her hips and, in a surprisingly rough manner, pulled her to him. He slid his arms around her waist, pressing their bodies together, thereby leaving no doubt as to what was on his mind. Of course, having herself changed into a tank and skimpy knickers, she had been none too subtle about what was on her own mind. If nice boys did in fact kiss like that, she wondered, then how did they shag?

So focused was she on the fact that he had her lower lip between his teeth, sucking gently, that she did not realise he had slowly walked her backwards until she met the wall, bookshelves to her right, fireplace to her left. The impact caused his teeth to meet a bit more than anticipated and he murmured quiet apologies. Her reply was to meet his eyes levelly, and admonish him for too much talking.

Her minimal clothing proved to be advantageous, as his fingers slid beneath the bottom of the tank and across the skin of her back, then down to the elastic of the silly pants, his nails raking just under the edge. With her eyes fluttering closed, she arched forward into him, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. In a quick movement he slipped the elastic down over her hips and they fell to the floor. His fingertips traveled gingerly back up to her waist, then down around the curve of her bottom, pressing her to him again. His mouth took hers again and whether or not it was because of the encouragement of where his hands were she couldn’t be sure, but she found herself simultaneously wrapping her arms around his neck for support and wrapping her leg around his thigh. He stepped forward, lifting her up, pressing her hard against the wall, her hips at his navel, her legs encircling his waist.

Between the wall and the way she clung to him, he hardly needed to support her, which afforded him an opportunity to run his hands along her back, lifting her tank to caress her breasts. As his hands rediscovered the backs of her thighs, he kissed her throat then grazed her earlobe with his teeth. Huskily he revealed to her that which was already obvious: that he wanted her very badly, and quite imminently. The urgent, unspoken question was what they were going to do about it.

He intimated that he had come prepared; not expectant, but hopeful, to which she smiled almost shyly (a little odd considering her current posture). It was apparently in his back trouser pocket, which she was in an excellent position to retrieve. As she reached for it, she realised suddenly and stupidly that he was essentially still fully dressed, so instead she grabbed the lower edge of his grey turtleneck and pulled up. It startled him somewhat, having occupied himself with stroking the skin of her thighs again, but he stopped to allow the shirt to be pulled over his head. Convinced at once of the necessity of skin to skin, he held her under her bottom while she wriggled out of the tank altogether. Quarry still not retrieved, she embraced him again and slipped her fingers into the slit of his back pocket, quickly locating the crinkly plastic packet. Holding it up, he took it from her, and, firmly against the wall again, she held onto him tight while he (presumably) unfastened his trousers and slipped it on, his chin resting on her shoulder. She fought back the urge to giggle (because surely they looked ludicrous from any other point of view).

She knew the instant he was finished by the way his breathing got ever so slightly more ragged, the way he kissed her shoulder before raising his head, meeting her eyes. She looked to him unflinchingly as his hands moved to her bum again, helping her to manoeuver slightly downward and outward. She felt him against that most aroused part of her and without conscious thought she tightened her grip on him, pulling him into her. Instinctively he pressed forward for the support of the wall, driving himself deeper, causing her to cry out, and not in pain. He quieted her with another fierce kiss, nearly flattening her against the wall with the force of his thrust, repeated several times with no less vigour.

She had never been shagged up against a wall before but she saw the appeal; gravity absolutely worked in her favour, and oh God, was it ever a turn-on that this straight-laced goody-goody was taking her in the manner of a whippersnapper boytoy in the back room of a seedy bar. He whispered her name, hot breath rolling across her ear, as she moaned low in her throat. In the tiniest part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought, she was immensely glad that this was not a common wall with another flat, though that same rational part was becoming concerned for the picture frames rattling on the wall beyond the fireplace.

The rest of her said: Let them rattle.

He broke the kiss, lifting his chin, eyes closed, clearly enraptured. His pace quickened; his legs were trembling. And in an instance he stiffened, bowed forward, pressing his open mouth against her neck, biting slightly, as he found his release.

He advised in a dire whisper that she should hold on tight to him, because he needed very quickly to sit. She did. He stepped away from the wall (and out of his trousers) and walked backwards arcing to the right, aiming for the chaise sofa. He tried to sit with the smallest jar to her as possible, though it still elicited a soft Ohhhh from her as he met the cushions.

As he leaned back, he gasped for breath even still; she sagged forward on top of him, her own chest heaving for air as she kissed his neck, noting that it was salty with his sweat. She smiled, murmuring softly to him in so many words that she had enjoyed that very much indeed.

Strangely, he apologised.

She could not remember ever being apologised to after a particularly good shag, and blearily she lifted her head to look at him.

His reply nearly made her laugh: he had not intended it to be so non-romantic, nor over so fast. His apology was for an inability to contain his enthusiasm.

While she had felt somewhat slighted, she smiled, for she could not remember the last time, if ever, a man had been that excited about shagging her. Pushing herself up to meet his eyes, running her fingertips over his collarbones, and bending to kiss him, it was then she advised him that he would have ample opportunity to make it up to her.

**Author's Note:**

> (* = "Finish first", of course. ::wink::)


End file.
